


Watch how I soar

by anamia



Series: The daemon!jolras AU [8]
Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Friendship, Gen, hypothetical suicide as performance art, jehan being Romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamia/pseuds/anamia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jehan’s dæmon was named Evelyne and when he was twelve years old and still called Jean she settled as a two foot long coral snake, thin as a pencil, who spent her time coiled around his neck like a deadly piece of jewelry."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch how I soar

**Author's Note:**

> The concept of Jehan being a witch's son came from a comment on one of my other Jehan fics in this 'verse. I loved the idea and ran with it. It does make this 'verse more of a fusion than I'd originally planned, since it was supposed to be the world of Les Mis but with daemons, but that's okay. The canon of this 'verse is sketchy and not entirely consistent anyway.
> 
> The title, of course, comes from the film _Serenity._

Jehan Prouvaire grew up the only child of the politician Maurice Prouvaire and the witch Ilana Skadi. From his father Jehan learned to read and to count and to move in society, while from his mother he learned to listen to the starlight and to douse himself in the harmonies of the world. His father gave him a taste for poetry and all the books he requested; his mother gave him charms to ward off ill health when he stood for hours in the freezing rain breathing in the hum of the world. Both gave him their blessing when he left for Paris, though his mother never told him why she cried as he left.

Jehan’s dæmon was named Evelyne and when he was twelve years old and still called Jean she settled as a two foot long coral snake, thin as a pencil, who spent her time coiled around his neck like a deadly piece of jewelry. From there she observed the world with him, staying silent most of the time and rarely making overtures to other dæmons save those with whom they fell in love.

Jehan and Evelyne fell in love frequently, though the romances never lasted. They rode the highs of love with eager ecstasy and plunged willingly into the chasms of despair that inevitably followed. They laughed and they cried and often they did both at once, opening their hearts to all that life had to offer. They gave in to passion in all its forms and their eyes gleamed with all that they saw and felt. Their eyes gleamed with other things too sometimes, dangerous things that reminded those who might forget that Jehan Prouvaire was a witch’s son.

They were seventeen when they met Courfeyrac, newly arrived in Paris and still hesitant. There was beauty in the bustling streets and crowded buildings, so much beauty that it made their hearts ache and their fingers twitch for the nearest pencil, but that beauty hid impossible cruelty, a harsh reality that rivaled even the bleak wastelands of the north and made them appear kind. Courfeyrac found them holding forth about the importance of literacy to a mostly uninterested group of fellow students and, with a grin that Jehan would later learn he offered to everyone, invited them to lunch.

Courfeyrac, it turned out, knew several quite excellent restaurants and seemed on friendly terms with positively everyone they passed. His dæmon, Marielle, walked gracefully beside him, greeting passersby as eagerly as her human, while Courfeyrac draped an arm around Jehan’s shoulders and shared choice pieces of gossip as though they had known each other for years. Over lunch he coaxed Jehan into telling anecdotes about his childhood, something the young man rarely did. Evelyne unwound from her place around Jehan’s neck and flowed down to pool in his lap and daintily lick the tip of Marielle’s nose. Marielle, a large cat with fur the color of milky coffee, purred softly.

Their political opinions came out over the course of the meal. Jehan had inherited his social conscience from neither of his parents, though neither had ever tried to discourage it. Courfeyrac turned out to share Jehan’s politics, if not his general outlook, and by the time they parted ways the two men were tentative friends. Jehan and Evelyne returned to their rooms in a haze of wine and company, minds whirling as one. Evelyne’s tongue flicked in and out rapidly in delight and renewed purpose, though until that day they would never have said they lacked any.

In the weeks that followed they met Courfeyrac and Marielle often, usually for lunch, and found themselves wholly enthralled by their new friends’ vivacity. Courfeyrac radiated warmth and good cheer, a welcoming grin always on his lips and laughter dancing in his bright blue eyes. Jehan, raised alone with two loving but serious parents, was too disarmed by such an offense of deliberate charm that it took quite a while for him to realize it was an offense at all.

Evelyne noticed first, as usual. She was the more level-headed of the two, though few but them could tell the difference. She shared her suspicions one evening as they sat on the roof of their building to watch the stars, Jehan’s legs dangling over the edge and Evelyne curled around his neck as usual. Jehan trusted her judgment implicitly, but neither could think of a reason why Courfeyrac would befriend them so deliberately. More worrying, neither could decide if they man sought to seduce or to beguile. Their sleep that night was troubled and plagued by fretful dreams, and Jehan woke sweating. They wrote down their dreams in the morning and spent hours pouring over them for meaning. They did not go to their usual café for lunch.

Courfeyrac tracked them down after three days, concern etched onto his expressive features. It did not suit them. Marielle’s tail twitched nervously, though her fur was sleek as ever, complementing Courfeyrac’s carefully chosen attire as it always did. Courfeyrac broke into a broad grin when he saw them and Jehan smiled back, Evelyne winding through his arms.

“Prouvaire!” Courfeyrac exclaimed. “We were worried you had given into excess and thrown yourself into the Seine in a fit of passion.” He was grinning, but he could not quite erase the genuine worry underlying his words.

Jehan laughed, stepping back to let his friend inside. Evelyne, despite their lingering wariness, flowed out of his arms to greet Marielle properly. “Not yet,” he said. “We would miss the clouds too much to offer ourselves to the river like that.”

Courfeyrac laughed back, making himself comfortable in one of Jehan’s chairs. Marielle jumped onto his lap while Jehan and Evelyne perched on a table, Jehan’s legs thumping quietly against its leg.

“That’s quite a relief,” Courfeyrac said. “Though perhaps now we should worry that you will follow your mother’s example and fly away on a sprig of cloud-pine and leave us poor mortals in the dust.”

Jehan shook his head, though he could not keep the wistful expression off his face; he had longed to taste the skies up close ever since his youth, had climbed as high as he could go and sent Evelyne up as a bird to stretch the limits of their bond so that they could revel in flight as much as possible. Even his mother had been surprised when Evelyne settled as a snake rather than a bird.

Courfeyrac must have noticed his expression because he laughed again. “I see you’ve thought about it,” he said. “I would suggest that you try any experiments in flight above a large body of water; you may miss the clouds too much to drown yourself but the water’s embrace will be more gentle than that of the earth, that I can promise. Attempting to become one with the grass is far too inelegant a way to go, don’t you think?”

Jehan’s lips twitched. “There would be a certain poetry in giving oneself literally to the earth from which we all spring,” he said. “And death needn’t be elegant, you know. It should be grand and visceral, a true declaration of a life lived. To die by earth’s hand while reaching for the sky’s embrace would speak to the tyranny of our laws, would exemplify the cruelties that keep us all from embracing our dreams and our potentials.” He paused for breath, eyes alight as he warmed to his theme. “It would have to be a sunny day, of course, for there would be more people outside to witness the statement. A few clouds perhaps, low in the sky to show an attainable goal. I would write a poem for the occasion, naturally, and have it declaimed as I plummeted, arms outstretched. Icarus would be too obvious a theme, naturally, and thematically wholly inappropriate. The workers at Babel perhaps, thwarted in their efforts for greatness by a God who cannot bear to see his power threatened. Or Prometheus even, who sacrificed his own liberty that the starving people might be warm!” He jumped off the table and reached for the first paper he found, lapsing into silence while his lips moved silently as he composed his final words.

Courfeyrac’s laughter brought him back to himself, and he blushed as he realized he’d gotten carried away. “As autumn’s rains have found us and winter’s fog shall not leave for months yet, you have time,” he said. “Though perhaps you should experience more of life before giving yourself to the Gods.”

Jehan shrugged, still self conscious. “I’ve too many things to live for,” he said, sitting down again. Evelyne curled through his arms and hid her head against his waistcoat. “There is too much I have yet to see to leave this life now.”

“I am glad of that,” Courfeyrac assured him. He tilted his head slightly, as though coming to some kind of decision, then nodded. “Tell me, would you be interested in meeting others of likeminded spirit? I have friends who are eager to make your acquaintance.”

“How many?” Jehan asked, frowning. He never had felt very comfortable in large groups, though he trusted Courfeyrac’s taste in companions.

“Fewer than a dozen,” Courfeyrac assured him. “Though we hope to grow our ranks with time.”

Jehan frowned and then suddenly understood, his eyes widening as he grasped the hidden meaning behind Courfeyrac’s carefully chosen words.

“So that’s what you’ve been trying to recruit us for,” Evelyne said, poking her head out once again. “We’ve been wondering.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Recruit is a strong word,” he said. “We certainly hoped you would join us, but we would have continued courting you even if you proved to be secretly ultra, though I cannot promise we wouldn’t have tried to change your minds.”

Jehan made a face, not wanting to be associated with that ideology even in theory. “We have far better taste than that,” he said.

“Oh, I know,” Courfeyrac assured him. He pulled out a pocket watch and his eyes flew wide open. “And we’re going to be late for a prior engagement. Listen, if you’re interested in meeting our friends come to the Café Musain tonight. We meet in the back room; just tell the owner that you’re with us and she’ll show you where. She knows what we discuss, but she’s very trustworthy.” He jumped to his feet, sketched a bow in Jehan’s direction, and hurried out of the room, Marielle close at his heels. Jehan and Evelyne stayed where they were, pencil still in hand.

“Are we going?” Evelyne asked at last, slithering up Jehan’s body to settle back around his shoulders.

Jehan shrugged. “We might as well,” he said. “I trust Courfeyrac’s judgment, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” she said. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to go at least once.”

“If nothing else it’s bound to be educational,” Jehan said, and she hissed a laugh.

“Nearly everything is,” she agreed.

“True enough,” Jehan said with a grin. He considered the pencil in his hand, then set it down on the table, making his way towards their bedroom. If they were going out then the least they could do was dress for the occasion.


End file.
